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Celtic Games – Seville 2003, Fans Paint the Town Green
- (by TC67 of KStreet forum)
Celtic Fans Paint The Town Green
It was the largest travelling support the football world had ever seen.A massive green and white army descended upon Seville in the hope of witnessing Martin O’Neill’s men emulate the Lisbon Lions of 1967, the first British side to lift the European Cup and the only Celtic team to pick up European silverware.
And to enjoy a bucketload or two of San Miguel, into the bargain.
No one was going to miss this occasion. Not many. The ticketless fans would be counted in their tens of thousands, despite the fact that three quarters of the Estadio Olimpico would be bathed in green.
“What we’re witnessing is the birth of a new cultural phenomenon,” said Rab Wilson from Shepherd’s Bush, standing outside the Cathedral on Avenida de la Constitucion. “This is the first major exodus to a foreign country to watch a football match on television.”
From every corner of the world, they gathered in the Andalucian capital, with it’s palatial walled gardens and stunning Moorish architecture. They were from Glasgow and surrounding areas and the broader Scots expanse. They came from Ireland, north and south, and, as expected, from Boston and New York. From every continent and, possibly, every country contained therein they made the trek.
The Celtic diaspora, with a soft “C”, had found its way to Spain.
Via boat, train, plane and by thumb, in convoys of buses, cars and mopeds they converged to make the city their own. Sombreros, beach balls, kilts, wigs, masks of Zorro, ‘Manuel’ moustaches, polka dot bikinis and giant sunglasses were much in evidence. Outside Flaherty’s bar (the “Hoops’ Headquarters”) the scene resembled one from medieval Europe, the street reeking of booze, sweat, piss and vomit and rocking with constant noise.
Through the walls of the Cathedral, Christopher Columbus, in his final resting place, was no doubt considering a second emigration to the US for a bit of peace and quiet.
- Realising this was a friendly invasion, the police stayed in the background enjoying the spectacle. There was no doubt as to where the sympathies of the locals lay. Hundreds of immaculately groomed local youngsters caroused with hairy arsed Scotsmen while Porto fans, outnumbered twenty-to-one at least, mingled happily, if somewhat bemused.A rendition of You’ll Never Walk Alone rang out along the length and breadth of the street. “It’s just like old times in The Jungle,” said Rab Wilson. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
The Jungle, the raucous north terracing of Celtic Park which gave way to seating in 1993, seemed to have been transplanted to modern-day Seville. At least in spirit.
- In the middle of the raised scarves, jerseys and flags, a copy of Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper was held aloft, with the first team’s faces pasted over those of the disciples. Not surprisingly, Martin O’Neill was cast as the Saviour.It belonged to Doods from Lanark. “Thirty euros in Stuttgart. I had it in Liverpool and Boavista as well. Big Rab Douglas (the Celtic goalkeeper) saw it and said, ‘Get that man a ticket for the final.’”
As he disappeared into the crowd the picture, in a massive gilded frame, was visible for hundreds of yards, bobbing up and down, flotsam in a sea of green and white.
Rab Wilson didn’t have a ticket. The forty year old artist had written off his chances of getting to Seville due to a commission. Ever resourceful, he erected a tent in the back garden of the house where he was working, eliminating travelling time and giving him “an extra few hours a day to get battered in”. He completed enough of the work to allow him time off and would be returning to sleep in the garden on his return. “I feel like the wild man of the woods,” said Rab, “but I’m in Seville, and they’ll be watching The Bill!”
This was a reference how fans of Celtic’s arch-rivals, Rangers, might be spending their Wednesday night, watching the cop show on the other channel. The mockery was relentless: “They’ll be in chip shops, while we’ll be in flip flops” and “We don’t mean to tease, but it’s 90 degrees.”
Not far away, in the Prado de San Sebastian, fans’ favourites Charlie And The Bhoys were playing to the biggest audience they’ll get this side of Madison Square Garden.
Billy McNeill, captain of those immortal Lions, was there, lapping up the atmosphere.
His team mates from that balmy May evening 36 years ago were also in town to cheer on their modern-day counterparts. All bar the genius winger Jimmy Johnstone, bravely battling motor neurone disease and unable to travel, and his great friend Bobby Murdoch, the midfield cog who made the wheels run smoothly in that ’67 side. Murdoch, a passionate Celtic man who would have been in his element among this throng, passed away two years ago, just before Martin O’Neill became the first Celtic manager to clinch a treble since the late, great Stein.And on they came. Trundling in was Kieran McIver, a 30-year-old graphic designer from Glasgow. He and two friends had arrived in Seville three days after departing from Celtic Park. Their mode of transport was a 1967 registration green Volkswagen. Beetle, adorned with the club crest and named ‘Jinky’ , after the wizard Johnstone. A photograph of The Greatest Celt Of All Time hung from the back window.
From Glasgow, they drove to Portsmouth “at a steady 50mph” and from there took a ferry to Bilbao before reaching Seville via Madrid, where they were robbed. At one stage they didn’t think they would make it. “I made the mistake of thinking Spain was a flat country,” admitted Kieran.
Even from the banks of the Caspian Sea, the Celts came marching in. Gerry Kerr, had travelled from Baku, Azerbaijan with his colleague, Willie Henry, and a further two dozen Azerbaijani Bhoys. Willie was ticketless but Gerry, originally from Edinburgh, had paid £475 for a brief. It was a match he “wouldn’t miss for the world”.
- Two amazing statistics emerged. 20 per cent of all travel from Britain was due to a football match in Seville. And one per cent of all global travel involved a Celtic supporter.Some may wonder, why the big deal, what’s with the hysteria? It’s “only” the UEFA Cup. Anyone who witnessed the amazing scenes in Spain will be unlikely to ever see the like again. It was a day many Celtic fans thought would never come. In 1994, when a dying club was given the kiss of life by the expatriate businessman Fergus McCann, thoughts of European glory nights could have led you to a padded room.
- But here we had a re-assertion of our standing as a major club, one who had made their name on the European stage. The scarves held aloft after the heartbreaking defeat at the Estadio Olimpico cemented that status.The booing at the presentation of the cup to the victors was well-deserved and accusations about ungracious Celtic fans is wide of the mark. Sporting plaudits must be earned on the pitch. A team with the balls to con the referee in front of a massive global audience cannot suddenly develop a thin skin when their appreciation of the opposition support is thrown back in their face.
Porto, a fine footballing side, will be remembered for ultra-cynicism, shocking time-wasting and the most ridiculous diving and rolling around seen outside of a school playground.
However, if any evidence were needed of the sporting credentials of 80,000 plus utterly despondent, angry Celtic fans who had had easy access to alcohol all day in the stifling heat, it is this: no shopkeeper had to brush his window into a bucket the next day and there wasn’t a single arrest. In defeat, this was a victory for the wider football community. Supping a beer in the Lizarran Tabernas on Calle Sierpes the following day, the manager, Jaime, offered the consoling words, “You lost, but you won. You deserved more, but you can be proud.”
Similar sentiments were expressed many times over the next few days in countless forms, whether in the cheers from kids on bikes or a burst of applause in the Paris metro on the way home.
Celtic fans can take pride in this reaction from neutrals, as well as in Martin O’Neill’s team’s Herculean efforts throughout a season where they fought to the death in everything they did.
As the club’s official anthem declares: We don’t care if we win, lose or draw, darn the hair we care, because we only know that there’s going to be a show and the Glasgow Celtic will be there.
If anything, this is an understatement… we didn’t get our victory on the field, but it really was some show, and it was a privilege and a pleasure to be there.